


Fear

by Anzabela (Mjrn)



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mjrn/pseuds/Anzabela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Squall has lived the past few years in the shadow of fear; when Seifer shows up out of the blue, he forces Squall to reexamine that fear and move on. Yaoi, post-game</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear

**Author's Note:**

> So it's a bit long and angsty, but I promise there is a reward of lemony goodness at the end! It might be a little rushed at parts, but I still think it's pretty good for my first time sex scene? The fact that there's any sex in a story like this is a stretch, too, so I'm obviously being indulgent on my part.
> 
> Please review. I love them very much. And I can only improve if people tell me what they found wrong with what I've already written! Or if you simply want to praise me, that's good too :P

It draws him to the window. He has to stand with his back to the door, facing the broad window of his office, to watch as the rain beats across the sprawling landscape unprotected from its wrath. It is a quiet day, filled with tedious tasks and office routine that borders on monotony, so the gentle pitter-patter of the rain against his window beckons him out of the blanket of silence to the window. He presses a pale hand against the glass, icy cold to the touch. Condensation materializes around his fingers, leaving an imprint when he finally retracts them.

He thinks about the War that pitted the Gardens against each other, that ripped peace from the gaia, that took SeeDs' lives as well as civilian lives. It was a time of terror, a time of fear. He remembers when the world overcame that abomination and recovered, rejoiced. And now here I am, he thinks. Right here.

Squall shudders. It feels like decades away. Moments of exhilaration, of despondency, of fear, all of that is drowned by time and space. It is so unreal. It's almost as if it happened to someone else—and why not? The Squall then would have scoffed at the Squall now, the Squall who peers at the rain from his window. The Squall who only takes Lionheart out of its case on special occasions, generally when he's overcome by such scotch and emotion that he sees clearly the train wreck his life has become.

And what have I become? he asks himself. Not even SeeD anymore. The title of Commander means nothing in times of peace except taking others' problems when they are swamped. It doesn't mean anything but High Profile missions, which hardly present themselves if at all. He doesn't even have a word for what he's become. Degenerate, he thinks. Low-life. But he knows that those around him envy his duties, that they were pointedly upset when he got the position they had all desired to fill: the rebuilder of Deling City.

He yearns to leave the office and storm out into the rain, head back to the Garden and charge into the training center. To stretch out his muscles, to ease the tension that has built up from sitting at his desk too much. He wants to feel the blood pumping in his veins, the shock of adrenaline as it gives him unhuman strength.

He wants to unleash the strength of Lionheart and slash his opponents to pieces. He wants the excitement of battle, the all-or-nothing, now-or-never mentality to beat down his doubts and insecurities, his hesitations. He'd give anything to have the taste of victory in his mouth again.

Instead of leaving, though, he resettles into the leather chair and picks through the papers piled on his desk in neat stacks. He might work all night, he doesn't know yet. Time, which had been so important in battle, is unimportant now. No adrenaline kicks in when a piece of paper is due, not like the adrenaline that rushes in and takes over his body when he has to strike now to save someone's life. He thinks, will I ever find that feeling again?

It's late when he finally pries himself from his work. The rain has been steadily pouring down in sheets all afternoon and hasn't slowed well into the night. He brings the umbrella his secretary has left for him downstairs but he debates whether he should forgo it in order to experience the rain.

He opens the umbrella and listens to the rain pelt it as he walks out from underneath the awning to the sidewalk and heads toward Galbadia Hotel, where he's currently staying in the penthouse suite indefinitely. While Balamb is still in the area, he thinks he should save the Garden's money and room there, but it will take some traveling, and he's wearing his uniform. That means something, though Squall is beginning to wander what exactly.

"Squall."

He pauses. His stomach flutters even it's the first time he's heard this voice call out his name. This voice harbors no malice, no hatred, no anger. He hesitates just before stepping off the curb to cross the deserted street. He curses when he realizes he's ankle deep in a flood of rainwater rushing to the gutter. His boots suddenly reverberate with the cold but stave off the wetness accompanying it.

"Squall."

He turns his head to look over his shoulder, but he neither responds nor stops. He's not really sure why he doesn't respond or why he can't bring himself even to acknowledge this person. He thinks, it's after hours. I don't have to talk to anyone if I damn well don't want to. Anyone.

"Damn it, Squall, at least look at me when I'm talking to you."

Squall squeezes the handle of his umbrella until his knuckles turn white. His stomach turns over; it's inevitable that he'll have to speak. He stops, in the middle of the dark street and bows his head, but that's all he's able to offer his nemesis. It is surprising that Almasy is here in Deling City, though. It's been a few years since the Galbadian Trials, where his trial had been watched all over the world avidly. A day wouldn't pass where a picture of the ex-knight couldn't be found on the front page of the newspaper. Although he was eventually acquitted with a slap on the wrist, it was an unpleasant experience.

Seifer catches up to him. He's drenched, his worn gray coat heavy and sullen on his shoulders. He checks over one shoulder for oncoming cars before dropping off the curb and planting his feet in the middle of the street in front of Squall. It's been quite some time since they've stood before each other; Squall suddenly feels small; he notices the differences in height as if for the first time.

It's funny, he thinks, how memory somehow makes me feel like we were the same size. I never felt weak, I never felt small, I never felt overshadowed. But now he does. Now he wonders how Almasy's towering over him never made him flinch. He wonders how Seifer's pure physical power didn't make his heart stop in battle. He doesn't need to be engaged in a spar to acknowledge the simple massiveness of Seifer's shoulders, the thickness of his limbs.

The older man notices Squall's appraisal. He straightens his shoulders and runs his fingers through his damp hair, attempts to smooth the hair back. All the while, he's smirking.

Squall is determined not to break the silence first, but the silence bears heavily down on him. It pulls them farther and farther apart. He gives in. "What do you want, Seifer?" The sigh is embedded in his voice. He refuses to look into those cyan eyes, so instead, he trains his own eyes on Seifer's steel-toed boots, sloppily laced and tied.

Seifer breaks out into a feral grin, the grin of champions. "That's more like it."

Squall raises his hand to his waist and glares at the water flowing all around his own boots. He wonders if he water-proofed them when he bought them or if they'll get damaged. "Whatever."

His rival rolls his shoulders and neck with a loud, grotesque crack. "So we're walking down the street, the same street, and we pass each other, and you're obviously in your tunnel vision and me, my eyes are wide open, and I see you, you don't see me. What happens? Nothing!" He laughs. It's like a low rumble of distant thunder. "Seven years, Squall. Seven years."

Seven years? He has to think about it. The lines of his face deepen as he frowns. Yes, it has been that long. The last time he's ever laid eyes on Seifer, it had been the first day of his trial. Squall didn't stay for the whole ordeal. He left just after it began.

"To be honest with you, I'm hurt you haven't been returning my calls. My heart breaks a little every time I hear the phone ring and it's not you. Considering how popular I am, you can imagine the heap the shards of my heart have become in these last few years." He places a hand over his heart for effect, a feigned expression of pain taking hold of his face.

A car turns onto the street, heads their way. The headlights pierce the mist rising around them as the car chugs in their direction. Seifer, with a slightest jerk of his head, gestures they move to the other side of the street. Squall, holding onto his umbrella as if the wind will tear it from his grasp, first doesn't move. Seifer takes a step backward to the sidewalk, waiting and watching Squall hunch in the rain. "Are you just going to stand there?" he prompts the commander.

Only when the car honks does Squall move. It seems somehow safer in the middle of the street than standing on the sidewalk with Seifer. He feels that as long as he's on the road, he has a straighter shot of running away, but he moves to curb and follows Seifer, who stands under the overhang of an Item store.

A shiver runs down Squall's spine. It could be the weather, but he knows it's his nerves. They have never been the same stolid nerves they once were since the incident at the desert prison, and he can't rely on his nerves to be steady when he needs them to.

He sets the umbrella down on the cement while he fumbles in his pockets for his cigarettes and pays no heed to Seifer's hawk-like eyes. He fishes one out of the pack and slips it between slender lips. When he notices Seifer's gaze, he offers one to him.

He recoils as if slapped. Disbelief is etched across his face as he stares at his former nemesis. "Since when does Wonder Boy smoke?"

Squall tilts his head to one side as he brings his lighter up and covers it with his hand to light up. He takes a much needed puff and sucks it into his lungs, savoring it. The blond watches in horror as he breathes it out. His nerves calm, his hand stops quivering. He doesn't believe the question merits a response.

"And here I was thinking you haven't changed." Seifer finally shrugs it off. "Well, then, I shall have to call you the Smokey Pup, won't I?"

He can't help it. He rolls his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

"And he speaks at long last! Have we been trained in conversations yet or are we taking baby steps?"

Squall shakes his head, distending loose strands of brown locks, and snatches up his umbrella again. "I'm not doing this, Seifer," he tells him and tries to walk away. There's a reason why he turned down Seifer's appeal to return to the Garden and retake the SeeD exam. There is a reason why he hasn't gone to Edea's house for their annual 'reunions.' It's Seifer. And it's just his luck that he's in the same city as him.

Seifer trails behind, not too close but close enough for Squall to hear him speak. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, all right? Shit, Squall, I just want to catch up." His voice is saturated with genuine apology. Just enough to make Squall turn and face him.

His anger flares, his brows knit together in unabashed disbelief. When he speaks, however, his tone is calm and level. "I'm Commander of Balamb SeeD forces, and you are an acquitted war criminal who takes menial jobs in random cities. There. I caught you all up, and I did all of the talking this time. Goodnight." He spins on his heels, only for Seifer to reach out and seize him by the arm. His heart skips a beat as the thick fingers curl around his bicep, the nails digging into the flesh through the thin uniform. He drops the umbrella, his cigarette falls to the ground from his lips.

"Really? Because that's not what I had in mind."

The natural reaction is to struggle, to tug and draw away from the burning grip of an enemy; but Squall finds it too hard to breathe. His muscles fail him, his mind only instills paralysis with fear. His nerves come and bite him in the ass. He trembles within the grasp, he blinks away the steady stream of rain as it pounds against his face.

Seifer peers down at his former rival, studying the stiff expression as he pieces the reaction together while Squall avoids looking up and into Seifer's face. They stay like this in a moment of uncomfortable silence, the truth spilling out and echoing in the chasm between their bodies. Finally, Seifer drops his hand, pulls away. "Are you—?"

"—Of course I'm not," Squall snaps, his eyes narrowed in his own incredulity. He makes it a point to touch the place where Seifer has touched him, wipe it off as if wiping away dust or germs. He takes a few steps back, his face starting to feel numb from the cold. His hair is flattened against his skull, and he tries to push the heavy locks away from his face, all the while avoiding Seifer's hard blue gaze.

There isn't anything Seifer can't see; his eyes narrow. It makes Squall uncomfortable and fidgety, like he needs to come up with an excuse as quickly as possible.

Seifer eventually drops his gaze to the umbrella that has blown freely a few feet away and is rolling along the gutter. He swings down to gather it up and shakes it out futilely. He offers it to Squall. Plainly, he says, "You're afraid of me."

Squall looks down at the umbrella, at the massive hand wrapped around the base. His heart hitches in his chest and he wonders briefly if his cigarettes in his pocket have gotten wet yet. His uniform is already soaked through and through. "It's been a long day." He doesn't take the umbrella; instead he checks his watch, which glows an eerie blue and reads 00:14.

This is a serious crime, in Seifer's book. The cadets in Balamb Garden can run and hide when he stalks the halls; Zell can cry; Quistis can snap back; but Squall, he can't be afraid. He can't just not struggle. Squall reads these thoughts as they pass across Seifer's face openly as if reading a book. He thinks, This might be a good time to bring up who won the war, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

The secret is out. There is no mistaking it now; there is no denying it.

The rain comes down harder. Each droplet feels like a tiny needle pricking his face. The wind picks up and gusts ravage the fabric of the umbrella. When Squall doesn't take it, Seifer closes it and wraps the string around it to keep it wound up.

"Is this how it is now?" Seifer asks quietly. He might as well be asking the rain because they both know Squall isn't inclined to respond to questions he doesn't like. "Am I some…monster that you can't get rid of?"

Squall swallows hard. He thinks back to the early afternoon when the rain started falling. When it woke him from his deep thoughts and beckoned to him to leave his chair and come to the window. How he wanted things to be how they were during the War, before the War, even. He recalls the imprint his hand left on the glass, how long it took to fade.

"I don't know what to say," Seifer murmurs.

The silent admission hangs in the air between them as they both sort through their thoughts. The impossible has happened, and now they are left with very little choice. Squall doesn't like to think about the prison, the time he spent at Seifer's sadistic mercy, when he was alone and in agony. He doesn't like to think about the words Seifer voiced, about the pain rending his body. He doesn't like to think about how he has only engaged Seifer in a group battle since the incident; he prefers to consider it coincidental.

But the hard truth glares him in the face. It can't be denied; it can't be put quietly in a dark closet and locked away.

Squall, with a soft voice barely audible over the hammering of the rain, says, "I need a cigarette." The hotel has a vending machine with cigarettes for sale in the lobby. It's overpriced, but it's convenient and they sell his favorite brand. He turns on his heel and heads in the direction of Galbadia Hotel.

At first, Seifer hesitates to follow, but he can't help himself. Their friendship or their rivalry or simply their bond can't end like this.

The automatic doors hiss open at their silent approach. Hot, stuffy air engulfs them. Squall welcomes the warm embrace as he darts into the side room with the vending machines. He gropes around in his pockets for some change and finds his soggy cigarettes. He tosses them in to the trash bin and returns to his pockets for some gil he knows is in there somewhere.

Seifer wordlessly drops some coins in the vending machine with a clink and backs off so Squall can finish eying him warily and pick the cigs he wants. The blond folds his arms firmly across his chest and ventures a lecture. "You should be more afraid of those cigarettes than me. Aside from the fact that whale vomit is one of the things manufacturers can add to a cigarette, each one takes off 11 minutes of your life. How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?"

Squall sighs as he punches in the code for his brand. "You sound like Quistis." The mechanic hand veers to the left to grab the pack and drops it in the slot. Squall bends down to retrieve it. His hands are shaking, always shaking.

Seifer is watching, but when Squall notices, Seifer turns to another vending machine and puts some coins in. "There's something we agree on after all. Who woulda thought? I should shake her hand the next time we meet."

He withdraws quickly as the blond's words sink in. It feels like a rebuke somehow, even though it's not meant to be. He brings the pack up to his mouth and tears the plastic with his teeth and tosses it in the garbage as he exits the room into the lobby. He makes a beeline to the smoking patio, a small courtyard with a sturdy overhang and garden chairs. He knows Seifer will follow him, and he'd rather have Seifer on the smoking patio in full view of the hostess rather than in his hotel room.

Seifer exits onto the patio with an energy drink and claims a bistro chair on the corner of the patio, but he relocates to the loveseat when he realizes how small the bistro chair is. Squall has already lit his cigarette and taken a few puffs. He leans against the wall beside the closed sliding glass door and wills the nicotine to calm his nerves a bit, to bring him peace of mind. He takes comfort if nothing else from the smoke as it coils around him like a snake.

Alone with the commander now, Seifer combs his fingers through his hair and says, "Seven years is a long time, isn't it?"

It takes a few moments for Squall to realize that he just might look like he was attacked by Leviathan. His uniform sticks to his skin, drenched and thin and freezing. His hair is plastered to his skull, dripping beads of cold raindrops down his neck. He regrets his rash decision to smoke on the smoking patio rather than the patio from his room. He could have toweled off, changed, warmed up.

"It's gotta be that you just haven't been around me for so long that you've forgotten how awesome I am," he continues half-heartedly.

Squall just wishes the ground beneath him sucks him down and makes him disappear. He knows what Seifer is trying to do, not enough to appreciate it, but he acknowledges it. He himself tries to rationalize it. After all, it was Squall who had won the war, not Seifer. Squall is not the one who should know fear of anything.

Frustrated, his rival vaults to his feet. Squall shrinks into the wall and wraps his arms around himself, his eyes trained on Seifer's hands. The blond bellows, "Fuck it. Let's just do this the old fashioned way. C'mon, let's get your gunblade out. Let's see if you've got anything to be scared of." He takes a step forward and then another.

Squall moves along the wall slowly, the stucco poking through his clothing. He thinks he's being sly about it, but Seifer growls. "Where's your Revolver? Get 'er out then." He whips out Hyperion and slices it through the air with quick, flawless motions.

This is about the time he needs scotch. A weight crushes down on his chest, but he forces a deep, deep breath. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and carefully places it on the lip of the ashtray before ever so slowly he pulls away from the wall. In small steps, he approaches his former sparring partner. He outstretches his hands. "I'm unarmed." His heart hammers out a drumbeat of a bolero.

"This is too much." Seifer shakes his head and jabs the tip of Hyperion into the ground as he leans on it for support. "Why don't you carry a weapon on you anymore?"

"I work in an office."

"So? Isn't there an equivalent to the training center around here?"

"There's a gym."

"A gym?" Seifer chuckles. "You're kidding, right?"

Squall eyes the gunblade Seifer loosely holds onto. He thinks, Seifer's not going to use it.

"So you run on a treadmill the way my pet rat runs on his wheel?"

It's ridiculous he feels so defensive. He lifts weights, too. Sometimes. Well, he hardly ever makes it to the gym, but on some sleepless nights, he will take the elevator to the hotel's gym, which is on the top floor with windows all around. He likes watching dawn break across the city as he's stretching his legs.

The ex-knight sobers quickly. He lifts Hyperion a little, ignores the faintest of a flinch from Squall, and spins the blade around. Squall fights the urge to back off. I'm not afraid of Seifer, he tells himself. Finally, Seifer puts it away. "You're serious, aren't you? What happened to you, Squall?"

"It's late. I should go." Squall is ready for another cigarette, but he'll settle for a glass of hard liqueur when this is all said and done. There isn't anything more to say. He turns to leave, but Seifer's baritone tethers him in place.

"I can't leave it like this. This can't be how it ends."

"It ended a long time ago," responds Squall, but he's not really sure what Seifer's going on about. He might be forced to stay longer if he turns to look into the face of the ex-knight.

The air is brittle, and Seifer shatters it. He laughs. It's a maniacal laugh. "I can't believe you're actually breaking up with me."

At that, he has to face the madman. Brows drawn together in utter confusion, he gapes at his rival. "What?"

"That's what this is, right? You and me, we've been together for years. We go way back. And you're breaking it off."

"We were never 'together.'" It's all still lost on Squall, but he keeps going. "This isn't my fault, either." The blame is aimed at him, but he refuses to take it. After all, it wasn't him who decided to torture anyone. Even after the war, he refused the requests for Garden to 'punish' Seifer, acquitted or not.

"If it's all on me, then, Squall, tell me what I need to do to make it right."

"I'm failing to see how a sparring partner is worth the trouble. Seifer, just give it up. Neither of us are who we used to be. I'm too busy to play with you. It's late, I have an early morning. Just go."

"Look, I-I'm sorry. I fucked up. You know, even I can have at least one mistake on my record. Believe it or not, I had no intention to hurt you. Ever. I still don't. We were at war. I…I never even thought it possible to hurt you."

"If you want a sparring partner that much, I'll readmit you into Garden," Squall says with thought. "You can retake the exam. There are plenty of cadets who are interested in—"

"That's not what this is about. Squall, I live alone." He pauses, ponders if he should go on. Squall waits, tapping his foot. "I don't own a home or a car. I don't have family. I don't have parents or a wife or kids. Well, I might have kids." Squall pinches the bridge of his noise.

Taking the cue, the blond continues. "I have nothing anymore. I don't even have a job. Sometimes I see Edea or Quistis. Sometimes Irvine. Maybe Zell. But the only one that I've really known is you. And you're telling me that I can't even have that much? You might as well convicted me and given me the death penalty." His voice rises like the thunder in the sky. "In fact, why don't we just end it like that? You can get over your fear and I don't have to live alone anymore." Suddenly Hyperion is out again, but the hilt is aimed at Squall instead of the point.

Squall remains motionless. Where's your posse when you're talking like this? he wonders. It's alarming to hear the words tumble from Seifer's mouth. For a moment, Squall thinks that ex-knight might be drunk and feeling a little sorry for himself.

"Go on, take it. Show me what the gym has taught you." He nudges the hilt at Squall again, who only manages to take a step back. "I'm serious. Because it's been seven years. I have shit to say for it. I've been going to all of those stupid reunions and I requested to come back to Balamb all so I can be closer to the one person who I've got left. So, go on. I have nothing else. Do it."

Squall frowns. This isn't right. "Seifer…"

"Nobody would blame you. Nobody will miss me."

"This self-pity doesn't suit you."

"Self-pity?" the ex-knight echoes, taken aback.

Squall waits with bated breath for an explosion. He realizes now that his words weren't wisely chosen. He fights the urge to look over his shoulder into the hotel and considers. He stands just in front of the sensor for the door. If he takes another step, he'll trigger it and the door will whoosh open. It feels wrong to have an escape route, but it feels wrong to bear witness to Seifer's suicide route, too. He thinks, where's Rinoa? Where's Fujin? Where's Raijin?

"That's what you think this is? Tch." He swings the sword and puts it away in one swoop. "Okay." And that's that. Seifer passes him, would have almost touched Squall's shoulder if he hadn't jerked back. The door snaps just with a note of finality.

He thought he would have felt relieved when Seifer's oppressive presence was gone, but relief never finds him. He stands there, listening to the pouring down of rain and the distant thunder breaking the serenity of the sky, and wraps his arms around his midsection. A deep-seeded anxiety tears at his stomach. His limbs tremble while he struggles to regain his composure.

Sometimes Squall wants to be like everyone else. He wants to understand others' raging emotions, but mostly he wants the ability to react appropriately to them. Something tugs at him, beckons him to follow Seifer and say the magic words that would heal his pain, but even if he knows what to say, he can't move. He can't put himself in another situation where he feels such fear, such utter helplessness. Fear doesn't often threaten him, but it's there. It's definitely there.

Seifer can take care of himself. The Seifer of old would have scoffed if anyone thought he needed comfort. The old him would see the insult for what it was.

He inhales deeply, extracts his lighter and another cigarette. The guilt of not going after the ex-knight sinks in. It's too late now. There's no way to know where Seifer ran off to. He lights up.

It's not as if he himself hasn't known loneliness. He's isolated in Deling City, while all his friends are traveling the globe. But no matter what, they always can return to Balamb. He stays here in Deling. He's stayed here for seven years. He's surprised Cid hasn't offered to buy him a house here to cut costs.

The long day catches up to Squall just as he finishes his last drag of the cigarette. The encounter with his former enemy made him tired beyond his years and his mind throbs with a dull pain. He can't resist much longer, so he leaves his cigarette in the ashtray and enters the hotel once more. Quiet elevator noise trickles in through small overhead speakers as follows him to the elevator. At one time, he might have taken to the stairs, but his eyelids are heavy and he just wants the day to end without further incident.

When he arrives to his room, A469 is spacious and clotted with unlove. He has scared off the cleaning lady, so she only comes once in a very long while, and the sheets of his bed are wadded into a knot from the restless nights of late. Aside from the bag of dirty clothes he intends to leave outside his door for dry cleaning, everything else is strewn across the room, hanging from the dresser, from the desk he rarely uses.

He sits on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots, then stands as he fumbles with the buttons of his uniform and peels it from his body, following with his pants and undershirt, underwear. He changes and sinks into the bed, untangling the sheets and drawing them around him.

He closes his eyes tightly and tries to clear through his thoughts. He shouldn't feel guilt, nor shame, nor relief. He should feel nothing but weariness and fall into a deep and profound sleep. Yet no matter how much he wills himself to fall asleep, he can't. Seifer's image swims before his eyelids whenever he closes his eyes.

In the morning, befuddled and cranky but awake, he finally calls his quest for sleep a failure. The early glow of dawn crowns the heavy set curtains pulled across the window, and he wrenches himself from the warm and comfort of his bed before his alarm even sounds and crosses into the bathroom to shower away his grogginess with cold water.

His alarm is still ringing when he exits the shower and returns to the room. He enjoys the hotel room, sometimes, knowing that he doesn't have to share a public bathroom with a million other men, and that he doesn't have to walk down a freezing corridor to return to his own room after a shower.

When he's fully dressed and feeling a little more awake, a little more in control of himself, he tells himself that he has the permission to stop by the café on his way to the office and get a coffee with extra espresso. It's a concession for the guilt that weighs on him in his sleeplessness.

He enters the office feeling even better. Almost normal even. His secretary is bending over at her desk, dropping things in her frustration and picking them back up again. She mutters to herself a few unprofessional curses before she realizes that her boss has arrived. "You're here earlier than expected."

Her hair is disheveled, her shirt wrinkled. She composes herself and smiles. "Well, did you get a good night's sleep?" she asks.

She always asks this question before a big day. He doesn't have time to answer. "If anyone else comes, just tell them I'm away at the Garden on business."

He enters his office and immediately sets about clearing away any sort of mess that might detract from his meeting. He straightens the chairs across from his desk and dumps the files on his desk in the deep drawer of his desk. He puts his phone on silent and turns his laptop off, closes it and wipes the fingerprints from the shell.

They'll be here at seven. They are busier than he is, but since he has the upper hand here, they have to come meet in his office, not theirs. He tries not to think about the night before, the fear that had caught in his throat and the peculiar display of depression from Seifer. He tries not to think of his helplessness, to lament his strength from the Second Sorceress War.

They come at the same moment Squall realizes he needs his second morning hit, but his secretary is already ringing him to inform him of their untimely arrival. He folds his hands in his lap and demands their obedience and stillness in the next hour or two, at least.

But he knows how this meeting should end the moment the two men walk into his office. General Carraway is here, like expected, and it is a face Squall doesn't care to see again, even after all these years. His hair has greyed at the temples and his face has a deepened pallor that one might consider a memento of surviving the Sorceress. The second man is not quite as elderly as General Carraway, nor quite the same size. He seems calm, tense.

"Commander Leonhart." Squall has to stand and take each of their hands and shake them. He mentally warns his hands not to quiver. He grips their hands tightly as if without mercy and them pulls away when the moment is appropriate. "You remember my colleague, Kenneth, don't you?"

Squall responds promptly. "I do. It's a pleasure to see you again." He can choke on all of these informalities.

"I know why we're all here today," continues the general gruffly, "but there is another matter I want to discuss first."

A sigh rises deep from his chest, but he swallows it. "And that is?"

"The matter of Seifer Almasy. I've received word that he's here in Deling. The people are getting…how shall I put this…fearful? Perhaps you, the Commander of SeeD forces, might assuage their fear?"

Squall wants to ask, And how might I do that? But he doesn't ask anything. He knows if he doesn't respond, then they will expand their request into something coherent.

The general does. "We know his whereabouts. We don't need some epic battle, but perhaps you can use your skill as SeeD to drive him off a bit. Or, at least talk him into leaving. I'd rather there not be any trouble. You know, citizens unite against a common enemy and all that. Torches and pitch forks as they pour through the streets, plundering and pillaging as they go."

Squall can imagine that. He lowers himself into his leather chair and nods to his visitors to do the same. The thought that he has to face Seifer gain leaves him feeling weaker, somehow. "You are the president, aren't you?" he asks. "You're asking me to do this?"

They both know who has held the reins of power in Deling since the end of the War, but he suddenly wants the general to pull that card, to make the claim of bravado that the president has the authority and not the Commander to boot someone out of the city, out of the country.

"Let's not forget who Almasy is and how dangerous he has always proven to be. It would be best if you went to him rather an army. Less people will die, don't you agree?"

Well, that may be true, but Seifer probably won't take much prodding to leave. But maybe he wants to incite them into killing him finally? The thought reviles him. Why do I have to feel guilty for this? He hasn't done anything wrong, he tells himself.

"This is an urgent matter, Commander. There will be bloodshed if something is not done quickly."

"You do this, and we'll support your decision to give Amarc its freedom from Galbadia."

Squall thinks, I don't need your support. But it certainly makes things easier. It's a great concession on the general's part; it also will make this meeting a whole lot shorter. In no time, he'll be outside underneath the portico and taking a drag of a cigarette and he'll be calm again, but there's always the uncomfortable fact that he doesn't want to face Seifer.

There just isn't anything to say. He and Seifer had never done any sort of talking before; it was simply taunting and fighting. Squall never needed to know the right words to fight; the actions just came naturally. But seven years without practice, he thinks his muscles won't remember the movement. Even when he's drunk and he opens Lionheart's case, the gunblade is foreign to his fingers, heavy to him. He can't ever seem to find the right grip around the hilt.

Cid has once told him that fighting isn't always going to be an option, but of course he's never considered it a valid piece of fact. Perhaps he should have listened.

"Where is Seifer staying?" he asks despite himself. Somebody has to do it, right?

He promises to deal with the public enemy sometime today. He gives himself the pep talk. Seifer isn't at his full strength right now. Seifer won't personally attack him while unarmed. Seifer is this and that, but it doesn't help. Seifer is vulnerable, and Squall feels responsible.

The rain has carried on today, though it's more of a drizzle here and there. A dark, solid gray cloud lies over the city with no end in sight, and the street lamps are on to counteract the darkness that has befallen Deling. It feels late somehow, like it should be after five, but it's hardly one. He spends the day at the glass, peering down at the city life on the street. It's distracting having a wall-sized window. The rain is distracting.

People scurry down the street huddled underneath black umbrellas. It makes him think of a funeral, of death.

When his secretary leaves, she tells him she's left a list of his visitors on her desk with business cards. She reminds him to leave, too. She doesn't know that when he leaves, he has to go to the other side of town where Seifer is holed up in a seedy motel.

He berates himself for not getting any work done the entire day as he grabs his things and leaves. He makes it a point to nab a few files to work on later on tonight if he can't sleep again. He quickly returns to his room, changes into something more comfortable. He looks at Lionheart's case in the corner of his room, but he just grabs a pocket knife instead. He feels empowered just holding onto it.

He stops for coffee before taking the 08 bus and heading across town. It jolts and jerks itself from street to street until it arrives to the right street. Squall sees the flickering arrow and ostentatious greeting sign from the window of the bus and he is anxious again.

Seifer's room is on the second floor. As he climbs the stairs, his slender fingers curl around the wet handrail and help keep his balance with each heavy step. What am I so worried about? he questions himself. What is Seifer going to do? Is he going to lock me up in a closet? Is he going to beat me to the verge of death and humiliate me? It's so far from likely it's laughable.

He hardens his resolve.

But what worries him the most is what he'll walk in on. Will Seifer open the door with red puffy eyes? Squall hates weakness above all else. He hates himself for being weak, but now Seifer, too, has fallen from that mighty pedestal. He thinks, the worst scenario will be Seifer bleeding out on the bathroom floor. He pushes that image as far from his mind as he can. He can't handle that.

Seifer hates his smoking so much, he should take his cigarette now before he knocks. Smoking itself is a weakness that Squall used to be ashamed of. Without strong lungs, how can one hope to maintain their endurance, their physical fitness? The ex-knight reminds him what it means to be ashamed of this.

He indulges himself before intruding into Seifer's life in the very same sort of way Seifer intruded in his. When he's done, he stamps it out on the cement floor and raps on the door curtly.

He waits a minute or so before knocking once more. He notices the third time that there are no lights on beyond the curtains. It could be empty. He retracts his fist, hesitates before drawing back completely from the door. Seifer might not be here. This brings up more questions. Should he stay until Seifer shows up? Should he command the receptionist to inform him when Seifer does show up?

He digs his fingers into his forehead and works into the skin like a massage, but before he has the opportunity to answer himself, a melodious whistle approaches, a crinkle of a brown paper bag, a jangle of keys. He turns to the whistler, but he's not surprised it's Seifer.

The blond carries a take-out bag in one arm and tosses his keys up with his free hand and catches them while he ascends the stairs. He only smirks when their eyes meet. He winks at Squall when he passes him and says, "Somehow I'm not surprised you still have a leather fetish."

"…" Squall follows him with his eyes but guards his silence closely.

Seifer unlocks the door and pushes it open wide with a jerk of his hips and he invites Squall in with a toss of his head. "What brings you to my humble abode?"

He takes a few steps forward, facing grim reality with gritted teeth, but then Seifer says, "You'll have to excuse the rats. Holes in the walls, you know?" Squall can't fight the involuntary step back, and a flush takes hold of his cheeks when Seifer throws his head back to laugh at his expense.

"There're no rats in here, Squall." He disappears inside the dark motel room, and only when he flips the light switch does Squall creep inside. He mentally notes the condition of the room—clean beds, nothing scurrying around the floor—and deems it safe enough to enclose himself in the room. Shutting the door, he slips the chain into place and then turns around.

Seifer clicks on the TV and sprawls along one of the beds with his take out. "You don't mind if I eat, do you?"

Squall's stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn't eaten yet. Seifer opens the bag and places more cartons of food than necessary around him in a half moon and digs in with a plastic fork.

Squall relaxes against the door, takes a deep breath. Seifer browses TV shows and chows down, and there is no expected exchange of words. For one thing he can be grateful, but he doesn't want to open the discussion himself.

"You ever seen this, Squall?" the former cadet asks, pointing the controller to the TV, mouth full.

"…"

"You don't get much TV watching done staying at your office 24/7, do you? You should install a TV in your office. Multi-task and all that shit."

He wonders if Seifer really had been drunk. It's plausible that he doesn't even remember the other night. He's certainly not embarrassed about it.

Squall ventures farther in and sits on the edge of the adjacent bed, buries his head in his heads. His thoughts are relentless as he determines what his next steps will be. He tugs off his jacket and folds it neatly before setting it beside him on the bed.

The TV is a low murmur, almost too quiet for him to make out the words. Just a distant buzzing. Seifer finishes with a contented slap to his abs and pushes his food to one side of the bed to lie back against the pillows. He whistles his tune again and sways his feet to the tune. He's not really watching TV.

Seifer grins at him, knowingly. "Take your time. I have all eternity to hear why you've come to visit me."

It's decided before he realizes it's decided. Seifer is back to his normal self, so he'll do what he's supposed to do. "General Carraway thinks you're going to incite a riot. You should leave." Relief floods him for getting it over with. The rest will be easier, he surmises.

"And why should I?"

"Because it's the logical thing to do when a lynching party is heading your way." He doesn't see the problem, but he knows Seifer likes being an ass.

"Are you more concerned about me or the party when I introduce them to Hyperion?"

"Should I be concerned about you?" He is, actually. Just a little. Seifer's words, profoundly lonely, echo in his brain.

"Eh, it might be nice for a change."

"And I'm all about change." Squall rolls his eyes.

"I know, you've finally come out puberty. I thought you might be going through it for another twenty years."

"You had no basis to say that," Squall says dully, remembering all too well the drive to Balamb for the beginning of the SeeD exam and the torment he received thereafter for asking after Ellone.

"I know, that's what makes it funny."

"It wasn't funny."

Seifer just chuckles. "Don't be a motherfucker. You wouldn't know funny if it bit you in the ass."

"What? Why would you…?" Squall glares at him.

But the blond keeps chuckling. "I forgot how fun it is to annoy you. Your face is a lot more expressive than you like to think."

Instinctively, Squall reaches up and touches his cheeks as if to mold them into a plain, expressionless mask. "Whatever." His stomach rumbles again, but he tries to ignore it. "Are you going to leave or what?"

"Our boy wonder has a one track mind."

"You're surprised?" He lifts a finely sculpted brow.

"I like that." Seifer swings his legs over the side of the bed to face him directly. He leans forward as if to close the distance. "Well, let me get to the point, then. No. I'm not leaving. I'm all cozy here and everything."

"Why must you argue with everything? Why do you want to stay here?"

Seifer sobers. His eyes fix on Squall, narrow as he prepares his words. "I already told you why," he puts out there. "I'm here because I want to be around you. If you don't like it, then you can stop it. I won't die by a pussy's hand, you know it. But I'll take yours. You defeated me already. You just have to finish what you've already started."

Squall groans into his fist. "Why? Why are you talking like this?"

Seifer shrugs. "Because it's the truth. I'm an honest man, what can I say?"

"I'm not going to kill you." I can't, he thinks. "Where are Raijin and Fujin?"

Seifer shrugs. "You tell me. Your guess is as good as mine."

They're your posse. "The last I'd heard they were in Balamb with you."

"Well, they got married and had a demon child. They moved on in life and told me to, as well."

"Why don't you?"

"And why don't you? You say you're different like it's natural, but you hide behind cigarettes and probably other drugs to deny that things aren't the same."

"I don't do drugs."

The ex-knight holds his hands up in exasperation. "Just sayin'. It sure doesn't look like you've embraced the new Commander very easily."

This is just ridiculous. "Of course I'm accepting of the new role I'm playing." I sit in an office every day; I put off training because I acknowledge it's not important to my new role. He glowers at his rival, daring him to deny it.

Seifer, being Seifer, doesn't let it go. "You're in denial, pal. Let me tell you. I'm older than you so I know more than you."

"Oh, don't start with that."

"Tch. You know it's true."

"This isn't about me anyway," asserts Squall, brushing it off with a curt gesture of his hand. "You're not going to leave because you're lonely? I'd be hard pressed to believe you can't find yourself a woman."

"I don't need a woman," Seifer admits evenly.

"Then a get a dog."

Seifer explodes into a fit of hysterics, forcing Squall to reexamine his remark. Still he can't figure it out. "I'm not getting a dog, Squall," he huffs.

Squall doesn't want to continue, but he tries anyway. "Then a cat?" he forces out reluctantly.

The blond wipes at his eyes theatrically and makes a visible effort to stop laughing. "No," he says, sobering up just a little. "I don't want a dog or a cat. I want you."

Squall grapples with his words until he realizes he simply doesn't have any. Eventually, he murmurs, "For what?" His companionship is worth next to nothing.

"I don't know. Maybe just to torture you." When Squall pales, he amends, "To tease you, Squall. Fuck. Is it really that bad? You wouldn't be scared of me if you still trained."

"I'm not scared of you," he responds stiffly.

"Sure, sure, and I'm a woman."

"Are you?"

"Ho, ho, that's clever." The ex-knight stands up to his full height. The move sends panic down Squall's spine; he rebuffs the urge to flinch. He swallows the lump in his throat and just stares up at him.

Seifer's hand jets out for Squall's face, and instinct makes Squall jerk back as if to avoid getting decked, but Seifer is fast too. He manages to touch Squall's face, brush his warm fingers across Squall's chin. Squall remains still as an iceberg.

The blond murmurs almost as gently as his thumb ghosting across Squall's skin, "I'm not going to hurt you." He adds for effect, "See?" He moves his hand so that his entire palm is flattened against Squall's cheek, his thumb gently caressing the gaunt flesh in small circles. He tilts his head in reaction to Squall's quickened breathing.

He brings another hand up to Squall's face, to trace along the fine bones of cheek, his jaw. "Does this hurt you?"

No. No, but Squall waits for the hurt to ensue. He feels as if it's just around the corner, and he doesn't know how he'll stop it. As soon as it assaults him, he'll be helpless to it. He has no way to resist. And then he remembers, just as Seifer edges even closer to him, so close that he can feel the heat of Seifer's body emanating off him in waves. He remembers the knife in his pocket. If need be…He's careful to draw his hand to his pocket without attracting Seifer's attention and slips his hand inside, wraps his fingers around the hand carved wood. If need be.

Tension grows between them, Squall fidgets under the intense gaze of Seifer's light blue eyes. He thinks, weren't they green? An eternity passes. "Am I hurting you?" It's repetition, but it doesn't come out demanding. It's calm, refined. "You can pull away at any time, Leonhart," he says. "See what happens."

It's a challenge Squall is hesitant to accept. If he pulls away, rebuffs Seifer's unexpected gentleness, he might provoke the blond into action, but they can't stay like this forever. He compromises. He retreats as if retreating from a rabid dog; tentative.

The blond lets his hands fall empty to his sides, yet he remains standing close, keeps a firm hold on their eye contact. Squall's hands loosen their hold on the pocket knife. "Did I hurt you? Did I cause some pain?" Seifer's voice is strained; the muscles of his throat tighten. He wants a response, but he doesn't want to prove Squall right. He answers for the obstinate commander. "No." He recedes back to his bed, flops down.

Squall wraps the distance around him like a Protect and breathes a sigh of relief. He takes his hand out of his pocket.

Cyan eyes zero in on the hand. Squall follows his gaze only to realize he hadn't fully let go of the pocket knife. Seifer makes a grunt of surrender and falls back on the bed, his legs still dangling over the side. Stretching out, his shirt rides up to show the faintest glimpse of his abdomen.

Squall swallows hard, noting the ridges of the man's stomach, the firmness. Seifer, though no longer a cadet, no longer training, has maintained his health, maintained his strength. He hasn't shirked his body the way Squall has. Guilt floods him, drowns his thoughts. Seifer probably thought things were the same, that they would be the same when he found Squall. That he'd punch a few buttons and Squall, with toned body, would fly at him slashing Lionheart and engage him in the spar of a lifetime. He had been under the spell of Ultimecia when he'd tortured Squall; the old Seifer had never hurt him, not purposely. He had hurt him during fights, sure. But they had known the other could fight back.

He doesn't want to feel sorry for Seifer; it's simply not justified, but he does. He whispers so quietly there is a good chance the words don't carry to Seifer's ears, "Seifer. I'm sorry." He needs to offer an explanation. "I can't help it."

"I won't resist. You can stab me with it, if you'd like." Nonchalance.

"I wouldn't like that," Squall confesses.

The TV drones on. Suddenly, he has this urge to stalk up to it and tear it from the wall, throw it across the room. Instead, he pitches the pocket knife across the room. It thuds against the closet. Seifer lifts his head to peer at Squall.

Squall raises both hands in surrender, as if to say, "I'm unarmed again." He doesn't know how he wants Seifer to react, but when Seifer intones, "Nhhh," and pillows his head with one arm without any other acknowledgement, he knows that's not what he wanted.

"Say something," he urges the former knight.

"There's nothin' to say. Why don't you tell me what I can do to make it up to you? Do you want a whip and some handcuffs?" he quips weakly.

"I don't see how that helps," he murmurs despite himself.

That does earn a slight snigger. But the former knight continues. "I thought that maybe if I showed you that I can be gentle, you'd feel better. But now I think there's nothing I can do. You just need to…I don't know, figure it out yourself. Do what you need to do. I guess all I can do is wait." He drums his fingers on his stomach, whistling all the while.

Squall agrees, though he won't let the admission slip. There isn't anything the ex-knight can do. Fear is all in his head; he has to make himself realize that Seifer isn't the enemy anymore. But he doesn't know how.

The moments tick by. A news anchor on the television reminds him that there is a storm brewing in Deling that's soon going to break, and it's not the droplets of rain pounding on the roof of the motel. He doesn't want the job anymore. He'd rather not have the general's support for any projects. He'd rather return to Garden and ask someone else to be de facto ruler of Deling—or simply, leave the damn city alone entirely.

The wind strengthens and blows a spray of rain across the glass of the window as he contemplates. He doesn't want to tell Seifer to leave anymore.

"Do you like being weak, Wonder Boy?"

Squall growls in response, but he takes the point to heart. No. And drowning it with scotch doesn't make it any better, either. He's hidden behind this fear of Seifer for so long, he's let it eat at his life so that there is nothing left. He's left among the wreckage, sorting through debris and trying to figure out how the pieces all fit together before. He's let it paralyze him and pacify him.

At some point, there has to be determination, not fear. He needs to do and not think. So he does what Seifer did. Because it's a start to a long answer.

The process of getting up and crossing the suddenly large space between them is slow and frightening, but he does it. He crawls onto the bed, the thin mattress dipping low at his weight and pulling Seifer down into the pit. The blond says nothing, just regards the commander with nonchalant eyes.

Squall settles in the middle of the bed, near Seifer's head, and tentatively reaches down for the blond. Just before his fingers touch his rival, he pauses and waits for some sort of reaction. At this point, the Seifer of old would take the lead, but this new Seifer only watches. He puts the effort in, he closes the distance and touches the skin. It warms at his touch, a faint blush blossoming underneath his fingertip. He adds another finger, and then another, until all five fingertips are pressed against the neck.

Seifer's pulse quickens, but like Squall had earlier, he doesn't move. It's a remarkable exhibit of restraint. Squall's fingers travel toward his jawline, noting the vague appearance of peach fuzz and the slight indentations of the bone left from all the fighting, and follows the it to the earlobe. It's odd to touch his rival this way, when they'd only ever scarred each other. Once Seifer had taken him by the shoulder and squeezed, but that was different.

He brings his other hand to Seifer's face, brushes against the rough cheek and caresses the cheekbone and temple with his thumb. He looks down into Seifer's light eyes, notices the glassy look. The blond articulates roughly, "You have no clue what you're doing to me, do you?"

Squall shakes his head, the brown tresses falling about his face. He withdraws though, wraps his arms around himself. He feels vulnerable again.

Seifer struggles to sit up and when he does, he leans in. Blood flushes Squall's cheeks, burning. Embarrassed, he says, "What are you doing?"

"Should I respond or should I just show you?" But he relents. "I'm going to kiss you. Is that okay?"

"No. I mean, why?"

"I've got the ice princess on my bed, touching me in a few intimate ways, why not? Kissing is not all that's in my mind." He smirks arrogantly.

But we're guys, he thinks. And we've never even gotten along, yet he knows this isn't true. They have never gotten along in the traditional sense, but there is something there. Something they've both been missing these last seven years. But he can't imagine it materializing as a kiss…or worse.

"You used to tease me all the time."

"I still do. But as an adult, I can admit that I used to tease that which I couldn't tame." Squall rolls his eyes. "I liked you then, and I like you now. Why do you think I came charging out of the disciplinary room when I found out you and two other newbies were going to go up against Galbadia?"

"Um, Rinoa?"

"Well, that, too." Seifer keeps smirking. "Hey, think of this as an experiment. You've never been kissed before, I'm the world's greatest kisser; it's an experience, I can assure you."

The brunet gives him a glare full of daggers. "I've been kissed before." Well, not technically, but Seifer doesn't need to know that.

"Oh?" The ex-knight feigns apology. "I didn't know. Well, maybe you can show me a few things. But…I'm not going to make ya. I'm not going to hurt you," he says the last sentence firmly, sincerely.

With an erratic thudding in his chest, he nods. "Fine." He can't explain how he feels about Seifer's declaration. It's an odd thing, but it makes his heart flutter. "But go slowly."

Seifer moves in slowly and presses his lips against his, holds it there. Squall closes his eyes and melts against Seifer's warmth. It's calming. It's human and real. It takes the edge off the vicious, cold image of Seifer in the interrogation chamber. The warmth withdraws; Squall's eyes flutter open at the loss of contact. It's a hard reality; he hasn't been touched in so very long time, intimately or otherwise. He yearns for more from the very pit of his stomach, but Seifer remains poised on his hind legs with an eyebrow arched in the unasked question.

It's his choice. He can explore this new territory; he can decide to trust Seifer. The blond won't make him do anything. He can't say what he feels right now is love, but it's something strong. He wants to reinitiate the touch, he wants something closer and more passionate. He wants to be touched like that; he wants the warmth and the comfort that he hasn't imagined Seifer possessing in a very long time. He wants this touch to prove him wrong, in whatever way it can.

This time, it's the commander that kisses him. It's sloppy, and Squall is at an odd angle. He reaches out to place his hands on Seifer's neck and hold him in position, but he's hesitant, so he keeps his hands just out of touch. Seifer gently presses his hands on Squall's chest, gently pushes him down on his back. He leans over the commander and lowers himself to kiss him. He takes Squall's lower lip in between his teeth and nibbles away. Squall sighs and finally touches the untouchable.

His hands curl around to the nape of the blond's neck and as Seifer nips harder, his nails dig in. Instinct commandeers rationality. The ex-knight kisses deeper and deeper, his tongue pillaging the younger man's mouth. It's wet and a different feeling than Squall imagined it, but he appreciates it. He tries to keep up with Seifer, their tongues entwined in an intricate dance.

Seifer has one leg straddled, which the commander doesn't realize until his flesh hardens across his thigh. He doesn't have much time to contemplate before Seifer leaves his mouth to lick and suck and nibble at his creamy neck. He turns his chin away to give him better access and swears he might die in the heat that engulfs him.

The blond finds the spot just above his pulse and runs his tongue over it. Shivers run up and down Squall's spine as he waits in anticipation for what lies ahead. Maybe it's just his need for a cigarette, but he likes to think it's the craving for physical touch, for attention. His own member jerks awake at the erotic caress of Seifer's slick appendage at his pulse. Seifer's hands, which seem to be everywhere, coax soft moans out of guarded lips.

Squall's eyes flutter. This is touch, this is sex. This is new. He wants to do this all night. He doesn't need anything else; he just needs these fervid hands pressing against him, groping him. Seifer, as if reading his mind, whispers, "And this is just with clothes on."

The prospect of the clothes coming off excites him more, that he can run his fingers and hands across the burning flesh of Seifer's chest, his abs; and he's eager for more. He reaches up to undo the buttons of Seifer's shirt, and the ex-knight tsks while helping him. With the buttons undone, Squall places both hands on the firm chest of his rival, takes in the sheer eroticism of the man's broad chest and peels back the shirt. Seifer shrugs out of it. In return, he tugs on Squall's tee, but Squall is suddenly embarrassed, shy. His body is just thin. The muscles that had once defined his body have lost their shape, and it's not beautiful, not like Seifer.

The ex-knight chokes down a dozen remarks and backs off. He unclips his belt and slides it out of the loops, tossing it across the room with a jingle as it lands on the other bed. He still keeps his hands poised on the hardened muscles of Seifer's chest. He vaguely wonders how he could have ever thought Seifer scary. Seifer is perfect.

He is ready to stay like this forever. This is how it can end, and it's fine. He watches as Seifer's chest heaves in anticipation, watches as the gunbladist undoes the top button of the jeans. With the button out of the way and the zipper down, the jeans flap open enough to excite Squall without showing all of what's underneath.

He traces the abs while Seifer watches the touch until he comes down to the groin. Seifer shudders, the gleam in his eye is blazing. Squall grasps Seifer's member in his hand; it's rock hard and eager. He peers at it in the shock that comes with the realization that Seifer is large and circumcised. It's not as if he expected otherwise; he simply never thought about it at all. He wonders at himself for never noticing in the showers in their cadet days, but sex had been far from his thoughts in those days.

Seifer leans down to capture plush, red lips again as Squall's fingers lace around the base of his cock and set about to memorize the texture of it, each crease and dip and ridge. He strokes it once and twice, only to elicit the slightest of a groan from Seifer. His chest heaves at the touch.

Never in a million years could Squall imagine being together with his rival this way. He never thought they could touch in such a way that could threaten to stop his heart. He couldn't have even dreamed that one day he'd be feeling up and down Seifer's member, their tongues fighting for the dominance they had during their spars. He couldn't have imagined he would be at Seifer's mercy in a very different way. His fear almost seems foolish.

He gets a certain satisfaction thumbing the mushroom head of his rival's phallus, brushing the pad of his thumb across the tiny pinprick slit on top while his other hand flattens across his washboard abdomen, soaking up each and every deep breath the ex-knight takes.

Breathless, Seifer tears his lips from Squall's greedy ones and says, "Hold on. If you keep doing that, you'll spoil all the fun."

"Wha…?" Squall watches, his head clouded and thoughts muddled, as Seifer picks himself up and gets off the bed.

"Take off your pants," he commands the lithe brunet. As Seifer sorts through his bag hidden in the corner, Squall unbuckles his belts with shaking hands, unlaces his boots. As he does this, his thoughts come back to him, little by little. The wild haze of lust wears off just a tiny bit, he wonders at himself, at his rashness.

But when Seifer comes back in view and kicks off his shoes, tugs off his pants, his thoughts slip away quietly like a summer breeze and he allows the blond to pin him down to the bed, covering his mouth with his own as he claims the pouting lips. Squall forgets his ponderings, he forgets his duty to kick out his rival; he can only sink back into the hard mattress and immerse himself in the racy touch of Seifer.

Seifer tugs at Squall's pants until the slighter man lifts his hips, and then the blond rolls the leather pants off with ease. There, bare naked and pressed against each other, Squall realizes the foolishness of having his T-shirt in the way. The heat is all-consuming, a fire that spreads across his body and sends his heart into overdrive. He rolls his hips against Seifer's, silently pleading for the ex-knight to get on with it.

There's more to this lust. There's something he yearns for, a place he desires to be touched, to be felt. Somewhere inside him, he knows Seifer knows how to fulfill this need. Only this man, this powerful and massive man can satisfy it.

Seifer's mouth ravishes the commander's neck in a fury unparalleled to the years of their clashing gunblades. Squall's erection is almost painful, and every time he tries to grind his hips against his rival's, his rival pulls away just slightly and continues his work with his mouth.

"Seifer…" he warns between a clenched jaw.

Seifer inhales at his neck and says, "I'm going to do this right. I'm not going to hurt you." He nips at the skin, once pale and unblemished and now covered in love bites and a deep blush. Seifer laps at the love bites along the jugular; Squall reaches up to run his fingers through Seifer's hair and tug.

When the former knight remembers himself, he straightens up. Squall fights the separation. He sits up with the knight, but he is refused. Seifer holds out a tube of lube. "I'm going to this right. Flip over."

Squall wants to look up at Seifer, to devoir his body with his eyes as the man thrusts inside of him, but he sees the logic. He turns over on his hands and knees, fights the rush of embarrassment that comes upon him with his ass in the air. "It's going to be cold."

Squall bows his head and closes his eyes, waiting for the first breach of his defenses. It takes a moment of preparation before he feels the first nudge against his hole. It's cold and, as expected as it was, a shock, but he braces himself for more. The finger spreads the cold substance around the rim of his entrance before working its way into the tight hole. With the slickness, the finger slides in with little resistance, and a violent shudder wracks his body. His limbs go weak, but he remains sturdy.

The finger retreats, and when he feels another prodding at his hole, it's with two fingers, even wetter than the first. It stretches to accommodate the two digits as they moved into the tight folds of his asshole. They stretch and scissor once they're inside, and even Seifer can't contain his groan of eagerness when he sees his fingers in action. Squall reminds himself to breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, he coaches himself.

When the third fingers enters, Squall panics. The walls of his anus resist the third intrusion. He blanches at the thought of Seifer's large phallus stretching him open. His heart in his throat, he realizes that there's a very real possibility that Seifer will rip him open.

But Seifer leans down, presses his stomach to his back and hushes him. He offers feathery light kisses along Squall's spine as assurances and even takes Squall's cock in his hand to give it a few strokes to remind Squall just what they're doing here. Squall responds with an affirmative, and Seifer goes back to work.

He moves the fingers in and out, adding just a bit more lube. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he promises over and over again with each stroke in and out. Finally, he pulls out and says, "I'm gonna put it in now."

Squall braces himself for the final battle. He's already having second thoughts, that this might not be what he wants after all, but Seifer presses himself to Squall's hole and ever so gently pushes in.

"Argh." Squall immediately closes his mouth, bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. Farther and farther in Seifer pushes. The walls tighten around his penis as if to stave him off, warn him away. He groans with the resistance. Tears spring to Squall's eyes. He clamps his eyes shut, bites harder on his nether lip. The pain of being torn apart registers finally. It's like a fire ravaging his bottom; it's like being stabbed with a knife. The agony is almost too much. Just breathe, he tells himself. Just keep breathing. White spots flash before his eyelids.

Seifer retreats and then pushes back in. Slowly, over and over until the pain isn't so bad, the resistance isn't so tight. The pain lessens. Seifer applies more lube. He can feel the cool lubricant dripping from his hole, tickling his balls. Seifer forces himself farther until he's sheathed completely. He gives an involuntary shudder. "So tight," he breathes. He stays still for a second, giving Squall some time to adjust to the newest intrusion.

Squall balls the coverlet in his hands, willing this to be over. He's done; this is enough, but he won't surrender first. So he waits. His phallus begins to soften at the agony of being ripped apart, and it becomes harder to breathe; but then, as Seifer pulls out and pushes back in, he brushes up against something, his prostate. His body seizes when Seifer does it again. He can hear the grin in the ex-knight's voice as he says, "That's the spot, isn't it?"

As his walls loosen to accommodate Seifer's massiveness, the pleasure of Seifer rubbing the gland multiplies. Each time, the thrusts become faster and a bolt of pleasure rocks Squall's body. He lets out a series of unrestrained mewls as Seifer fills him all the way to the hilt and pulls back again. Any doubts, any thoughts he might have had flee at the wild wrings of pleasure that take over his body. Each time Seifer pulls back, he bucks his hips for more.

The former knight puts his hands on either side of the commander's small hips to hold him in place for a good pounding, growing steady in pace, his fingers digging into plush cheeks. The hotel around them disappears and suddenly it is almost as if they are the only two people left in the world, joined together in perfection. Squall loses all words, all ability to think. All he can do it drown in the pleasure Seifer has given him.

In and out, Seifer pounds into the slighter man's frame. He commands, "Touch yourself." Squall, surprised he forgot something as important as his own penis, wraps his fingers across his member and pumps in time with Seifer. It's not long before his balls clench and tighten, preparing for a long hard release. Panting, he calls out Seifer's name, surprising them both with the boldness of it. Then in a moment of unparalleled bliss, the pearly white cum jettisons out and pours onto his fingers, pools on the worn coverlet. His walls constrict around Seifer's cock and pushes him over the edge. With jagged thrusts, Seifer cums inside him, his seed filling the recesses of Squall's ass. With a last grunt, he pulls out finally, spent and they both lay on their backs on the bed, pleasure rippling across their bodies.

All Squall can do is breathe. His limbs feel light, but even so, he doesn't think he'll ever move them again—and he wouldn't even care. He doesn't have any questions, any worries. He remembers his hunger vaguely, but he doesn't care about that, either.

When their breathing evens out, Seifer admits, "That was way better than I ever imagined."

The commander has never imagined it at all, so he can't compare. All he knows is that he has never felt so relaxed, so calm. It won't last, but he indulges in it while he can. Maybe he'll always be a little afraid of Seifer, because promises to keep from hurting him aren't anything to go by. It's the fact that Seifer can hurt him that's the problem. Even so, Seifer can make him feel so good. It's worth it.

Seifer questions him about the future. He asks, "Are you really going to kick me out?"

Squall snorts. "I don't think I can now."

The response is laughter. "Then does that mean you and me can go away together? Travel the globe and find monsters and train and spar and fuck each other's brains out for the rest of our lives?"

"No. I have duties." Squall contemplates his words, his sentiments, before continuing, "You're right, though. It's time for me to move on. So I won't have the excitement of battle. My years as a competent mercenary are slipping through my fingers fast. I need to accept that there are other ways to feel the rush of adrenaline."

"Ah, and so Puberty Boy discovers sex. Looks like I opened Pandora's Box all over again!"

Squall doesn't have the energy to glare him. Instead, he pinches Seifer's bicep and rolls his eyes. Growing up just might have its perks. Maybe it's time to accept a new Squall. The old Squall might not have ever tolerated that intimacy, after all.


End file.
